Dialogue Between Lovers
by Tehri
Summary: While visiting a bar, Francis suddenly drags Arthur outside to speak to him... / Random fic is random, and summary sucks... T for language and one suggestive scene.


**To be honest...? I don't know what I was thinking. xD Anyway. This story is heavily based on a Swedish song called "Dialog Mellan Älskande Del X" by Loke (a direct translation of the title would be "Dialogue Between Lovers Part X"). It's about a couple at a pub who start to argue in the bathroom, and it leads to pretty heavy insults. I randomly came to think about Arthur and Francis while listening to it, so... Yeah, here we go. xD My first FrUK fic.**

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The day had, as always, started out well enough. Nothing new happened at the meeting, the usual quarrels surfaced and the usual words were spoken. But when everyone was just getting ready to leave, America suddenly got to his feet and exclaimed that they should go out for drinks that evening. Even though not everyone accepted the suggestion, a small crowd called out that they would be there. Everything was going well; it was nothing but smooth sailing. But when England arrived with France, there seemed to be a rather cold and uncomfortable silence resting like a dark cloud over them. They had argued a lot during the meeting, and it was to be expected that the argument had continued behind closed doors before they decided to join the small crowd that was heading out. When they reached the bar and drinks were ordered, Francis suddenly turned to Arthur and gave him a small smile, as if trying to apologise for any harsh words he had spoken earlier.

"Do try not to drink too much, _mon cher_," he said. "You know how much trouble it brings."

Arthur glared back at him, and his words were filled with venom when he replied.

"Since when are you my babysitter," he hissed. "You do not decide how much I am to drink, frog."

As the time passed and they all drank more and more, Arthur and Francis slowly got more and more hostile to each other. While the Frenchman seemed to want to apologise and forget about the argument, Arthur was apparently more intent on keeping the slightly older man away from him. Alfred took his chance and decided to keep Arthur company while Francis had wandered off to get another drink; the Frenchman had already been gone for quite a while, which did nothing to improve his lover's mood. In fact, the Brit seemed to enjoy the American's company quite much, as he paid for the drinks and really talked to him. The conversation was simple, and the jokes were rather endearing. Arthur barely even noticed how the conversation seemed to be steered towards the subject "relationships, love and sex". A subject he normally avoided unless he was in a good mood or someone asked for advice.

As Francis began to move back to find Arthur almost an hour and a half later, hoping to make him accept yet another apology, he suddenly saw how Alfred leant closer and closer to the Brit, who merely glanced at him with a slight frown grazing his features. It looked as if they had been at this for a while, and Arthur had apparently done nothing to stop the brat. But as the American suddenly pressed his lips against the Englishman's neck, Francis heard himself growl as he quickly stepped forward, only barely noticing how Arthur seemed to freeze and then try to make the younger man stop.

"Get off him, _mon ami_." Francis surprised even himself with how cold his voice sounded. "Now. I need to talk to him."

Alfred stopped, but glared slightly at the older nation who had dared to interrupt.

"Get lost," he replied. "It's not like you care that much. I mean, you were off flirting with those girls over there anyway, so what does it matter to you if Artie gets to have some fun?"

Francis immediately grabbed his lover's hand and pulled him away from the American, ignoring the glare those forest green eyes sent him.

"It matters because I love him, and you would only hurt him," he hissed angrily. "And don't call him "Artie". It's a horrible nickname, and you know how much he hates it." Then, he looked at Arthur. "And now, _mon cher_, I need to speak to you."

* * *

It was fairly obvious that Arthur had been drinking quite a bit, as he stumbled when they walked out from the bar. But he had no problems with focusing, or talking, apparently. The only thing, despite the stumbling, that showed that he had been drinking was the way he spoke; he never cursed that much normally. But as he demanded an explanation for the fifth time, Francis suddenly let go of his hand and looked at him with a smile that was as fake as a bald guy wearing a wig to make it look like he had hair.

"Arthur, you're a delightful person when you're sober," he said calmly. "But after getting some alcohol into your system, you change quite much. That's why I asked you not to drink too much, because I don't feel like hauling you down from a table while you're stripping and shouting that you're "beautiful, free and wild". I care much about your freedom, _mon cher_, but it's nothing but hypocrisy to be an alcohol-based sort of free."

Arthur, immediately sensing that this would turn into nothing else than a long scolding-rant if the frog was allowed to continue without interruption, crossed his arms and glared at the slightly older man.

"I can hear that gibe, you bastard," he replied icily. "Bringing up your criticism with elegant language and a velvet-tongue won't get you far in life, as you very well know. You know what? Skip your bloody insinuations already, Francis! If there's something on your mind, then just fucking tell me already." But suddenly, a taunting smirk spread on his lips. "No, wait. Don't say it. I think I can guess. You're angry and whining because I don't give you my full attention. Is that it? You're angry because I wasn't constantly looking at you."

The Frenchman knew all too well what this was; it had happened many times before, and he always let it happen only because he wished to know Arthur's view on the situation. It never really helped, of course, it was only an empty gesture of politeness.

"Oh, so you think that I am jealous," he asked, a smirk appearing on his lips as well. "Well, I have a small right to be, _non_? After all, since we came here, you've been flirting with quite many. You act as if you were a teenage girl looking for an easy lay, Arthur, and I don't think I like it. You were talking a little too much to _l'Amérique_ a moment ago... I never knew that you liked sport jocks, _mon cher_."

The Englishman huffed in response and turned away from him.

"Well, thank black Satan for that I speak to others," he growled. "All those times you say that you're only going to get us some drinks, and then you're gone for an hour or two. And where do I find you when I actually go to look? At the bar, drinking and flirting with a girl you've found, normally the type with too much makeup, big eyes and breasts, and the IQ of a tin soldier." Francis attempted to get a word in to say that the girls were charming, but Arthur interrupted him as soon as he opened his mouth. "Don't you dare to come to me to bullshit about hypocrisy, you sod, when you only need to look in the mirror to see a true hypocrite!"

At this point, some of the other nations who had tagged along to the bar were peeking out to see what all the fuss was about; what they saw was Arthur and Francis standing only a few feet away from each other, glaring furiously and apparently saying whatever came to mind that would rile the other up a little more.

"So I am false now as well?" Francis didn't bother hiding the anger in his voice anymore. "Well, that might be true at times. Remember all those long walks we took, hand in hand? I've only ever pretended to like them. And all those times I've carried you home when you're too drunk to stand on your own, I've felt like dumping you in the nearest gutter!"

"Fuck you," Arthur retaliated and clenched his fists. "Fuck you for all the times you've begged for me to kiss you when you're bloody hung-over and sweaty. And for all the times when you've said that I'd look good with another hair colour. And fuck you for your bloody smoke-poisoned breath! But oh no, don't stop for my sake, you'll miss out on the lung cancer! Oh, and fuck your fucking morning-wood!"

"Oh? And how do you think I like you during your seemingly eternal _period_, _Angleterre_? You're such a woman!"

"How do you think _I_ like your fucking smoker's cough and your _impotence_? No wonder I flirt with others, eh?"

"Oh, go ahead and sleep with the brat, then! It's not exactly wonderful to sleep next to you and your bony ass either, so maybe he should get to do that from now on!"

"_What_? You take your fucking _downy_ _hair_ and go to hell!"

"My hair is _not_ downy! _You_ can go to hell with your _eyebrows_!"

"I swear, I'll pluck your damn beard! It's impossible to discuss anything with you anyway, I'd be better off without you! You always turn things into arguments! It's like talking to a wall!"

Before either of them managed to say anything else, Germany stepped out and slammed his fist against the wall to get their attention. He glared angrily at them.

"Go back to the hotel," he said. "You have both been drinking, and we all know that you two can't resolve anything with alcohol in you. So go back and sleep and try to clear your heads tomorrow instead."

Reluctantly, the two nations began to head back to the hotel. They didn't look at each other, but Arthur could hear Francis sigh deeply, and Francis in turn heard Arthur let out a weak sob, as if he was crying... Not a single word was spoken on their way back, but just as they walked inside and headed towards the elevators, they both suddenly reached out to take the other's hand. Slowly, they looked at each other, still not saying a single word. A small smile tugged at Arthur's lips all of a sudden, a smile that immediately spread to Francis as well.

"You know," said Arthur slowly. "I think I just remembered something..."

"And what would that be, _mon cher_," asked Francis softly, tilting his head.

The Englishman reached out his other hand and trailed it over his lover's cheek.

"Despite all those harsh words," he whispered, "you're the most wonderful thing in my entire life. The best that ever happened to me..."

For a short moment, they only stood there; then, Francis shoved Arthur up against the wall and kissed him deeply, trailing one hand through his hair. Arthur clung to him almost desperately, and when their lips parted he let out a breathless laugh.

"You don't want to wait for the bloody elevator either, do you," he said with a grin.

In response, Francis grabbed his hand and began to drag him up the stairs; they kept close, embraced and kissed each other eagerly. Every now and then they'd slam against a wall or a door, quite possibly rousing more than four or five sleeping people on their way back to their own room, but they cared little about that. They only had eyes for each other right now, and they were eager to be alone. Although it took Francis a moment to unlock the door, as he tried to concentrate on kissing Arthur and unbutton his shirt at the same time, they were soon in the room and on the bed. Clothes were ripped off and thrown in rather random directions; although thin, the clothes were still a small barrier between them that they wanted to get rid of. They pressed against each other, hands and lips touching sensitive places to be rewarded with sweet moans and eager pleas for more.

* * *

A few hours later, they sat together by the window after soaking in a warm bubble bath for a while; classical music sounded in the background (Francis did, after all, have a rather extensive collection, and although few knew about it, he was very fond of classical music) while they silently spoke to each other. They had both apologised several times, both for the words they had spoken and for things they barely even remembered anymore. Francis sat with his arms around Arthur, who rested his head on his lover's chest. Neither of them wore anything else than a thin bathrobe, and neither wanted to put on any other clothes at the moment. Smiling softly, Francis trailed his hands through the Englishman's hair and glanced out through the window, seeing how the sky in the east slowly turned red as the sun rose.

"Look," he whispered. "_Mon petit lapin_, look. The sun is rising."

Arthur blinked and turned his head, seeing how the now blood-red orb began to work its way over the horizon.

"Have we really been awake for that long," he mumbled. "Good lord... We should've been asleep by now."

"_Oui_, perhaps," Francis laughed. "But we did need to clear some things up, _non_? They'll have to forgive us this one time."

He tightened his hold slightly on Arthur and closed his eyes.

"Francis... I... I'm really sorry about all I said..." Arthur cuddled up against him. "I was... I was angry... A-and I didn't... I didn't really mean it..."

A warm hand trailed through the Englishman's hair, and Francis chuckled softly.

"I know, _lapin_," he replied. "I didn't mean what I said either... But come now. We won't fight like that again... At least I promise that I won't start anything like this."

Arthur smirked slightly.

"At least not until the next time we go out somewhere after a meeting."


End file.
